Gauntlet (38 page)

“Just imagine it, Cath,” he continued. “Clogs of dirt and gravel in your throat, as more and more dirt and rocks are shoveled down on top of you. And all the while those hideous bastards were laughing. They wanted to do it slow. I heard them say, ’Give us a better show.’ Oh God, Catherine, I get sick just thinking of it.”

“Well somehow you must’ve been rescued. I mean, here you are,” she answered.

“Yeah. The neighbors had heard the gunshots. They thought they heard someone screaming. I guess that someone was me, but I don’t remember doing it.” He squeezed her hand and was silent for a moment.

“Go on,” Catherine urged.

“Someone called 911, and even our primitive computers back then were able to cross-reference the location to a place where we had an undercover operation going. Dispatch sent a couple of PC’s. There was some gunfire, another officer was slightly wounded, and most of the gang was rounded up. Some of them are still on the rock pile, 20 years later, murderous bastards that they are.”

“How’d they find you?” Indy’s narrative was beginning to make Catherine nervous. His fear was contagious. She also had a very clear mental picture of what he had gone through. Suddenly the walls seemed to be pressing in on her, too, cutting off her air.

“The police dogs did. I think I was 90 percent gone by the time they found me. I heard the voices, saying, ’Holy shit, there’s a guy down here. He looks hurt bad. Holy shit. It’s Indy. Call a bus. Get a bus fast.’ That’s all I remember. I woke up a couple days later at Vancouver General. I had a bad case of pneumonia — a couple of fractured ribs had punctured a lung when I hit the bottom of the trench. I had a badly infected thigh wound and a severe concussion. Physically I was OK in a few weeks. I was out of the hospital in ten days, and back on the job in 12. But psychologically... well, that wasn’t so straightforward.”

“What happened?”

“I was plagued by nightmares. Had them almost every night. Every single damn night. And in the middle of the day I would drop into this weird state where I was experiencing the whole thing all over again. I thought about it obsessively, and I started getting panic attacks. In the middle of a meeting I would suddenly feel like I was suffocating. It was really awful; I slept without any sheets or blankets for awhile. The weight of them felt painfully heavy, like they were crushing me.”

“Did it get any better?” Catherine still held Indy’s hand in her own, and gave it another small squeeze.

“A bit. The local shrinks were saying I had Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Not a particularly hard diagnosis to make. They put me on meds for awhile, but they didn’t do anything, so I stopped taking them. Then I went to counseling for the better part of a year — that may have helped, marginally. The only thing that really helped was the passage of time. Gradually, over the years, things started to settle down.”

He paused for a moment, taking a deep breath. “Now with this bullshit, I’m right back there. Catherine, you have no idea how absolutely paralyzing this is. I feel as though I’m in my own tomb, like I’m going to die here, slowly and painfully. It’s terrible. The fact that it’s drug dealers again...” His voice broke a little.

Catherine didn’t say anything. If deliveries only came through the mine once a month, they may very well be locked up in their own tomb. It wasn’t a nice thought.

B
Y THE NEXT DAY, Khasha’s anxiety over Turbee’s disappearance had turned to fear, and by the day after that, to panic. The police weren’t interested, and her coworkers weren’t nearly as upset as she was. Relax, they told her. He’s worth $80 mil, more or less. He’s off in Hawaii on vacation. But Khasha knew that Turbee wasn’t prone to sudden trips. To get to Hawaii you had to fly. To do that you had to negotiate airports and security, and she couldn’t fathom Turbee doing that alone. Something was very, very wrong.

Every few hours she called the police, but there were no developments. The switchboard operators were starting to sound pissed off. Their answers were becoming shorter and more impatient. No. No Hamilton Turbee had shown up. Perhaps that was good, she thought. At least it meant that he wasn’t rotting in a cell somewhere. She turned to the hospitals next. There were dozens within the District of Columbia, from Walter Reed to the Children’s National Medical Center. Some refused to give her any information over the phone, and these she visited in person throughout an increasingly frustrating and anxiety-laden day. Turbee was a gentle soul with a quirky sense of humor, and tremendous gifts. But he had a history of depression, and after seven days of who-knew-what, with the idiotic standoff over the
Haramosh Star,
and a frothing Dan firing him in front of the entire TTIC staff, thoughts of suicide might not be far off. She was terrified that when she found him, he would be either dead or beyond help.

It was 4PM when she arrived, bone weary and desperate, at the receptionist’s desk at Saint Elizabeth’s Hospital. It was the twelfth DC hospital she’d visited that day.

“Hamilton Turbee? No, never heard of him.” The efficient clerk look up and down a computer screen, then ran a search. “No such person here, miss.”

“He’s in his mid-20s, blond, and very thin,” pressed Khasha. She placed a photograph on the counter.

“Well, a lot of people are. He isn’t here, miss. And in any event, this is a psychiatric hospital. We deal primarily with mentally ill individuals who are in trouble with the law. Does your friend fit that description?” Without waiting for an answer, she picked up the picture and inspected it. “Doesn’t look familiar to me, but I don’t go back in the wards too often. There are safety issues. Can get dangerous, you know. We have some very difficult patients in here.” She sternly straightened her glasses and shifted her gaze back to the computer screen.

Khasha pulled a face at the receptionist’s self-importance. “Can you show it to a guard? He’s been missing for seven days. Maybe he just came here today?”

In response, she received the same question that she’d heard from dozens of other receptionists, clerks, and various law enforcement personnel. “How do you know he’s missing?”

At that instant an armed guard came down the hallway. Khasha whisked the picture off the desk and held it in front of his face.

“Has this individual been admitted to this hospital? Hamilton Turbee?” she asked tremulously.

“Yup. That’s the guy who came over from PSA 706 six days ago. Don’t know about no Hamilton Turbee. That’s our John Doe #17. He’s curled up in a ball in the corner of his cell.” The guard sniggered. “The way he’s curled up makes him look like a small bag of flour. This guy’s really over the top.”

“Oh my God,” breathed Khasha. “Can I see him?”

“Nope. Against hospital policy. You can’t tell with guys like this. One minute they’re curled up like a puppy, the next instant they’ve killed somebody. He assaulted a police officer. In fact, several police officers. He’s listed as dangerous. He has eight or ten criminal charges against him already. Sorry, you can’t see him other than during visiting hours, which ended a couple of minutes ago.”

“He did what? He assaulted...?”

“Yeah. Police officers, multiple times. This guy is a criminal. He’s criminally insane. That’s why he’s here.”

“No way,” said an astounded Khasha. She couldn’t imagine Turbee assaulting any creature, let alone a police officer. “Please, please let me see him.”

“Nope.”

“Please.”

“No. Rules are rules.”

“OK,” said Khasha. “Can you give me a moment?” The guard shrugged his shoulders, unconcerned, and Khasha pulled out her cell phone, scrolling through the numbers she’d dialed in the past few days. Finally she found what she was looking for and pressed the call button.

“Henessey van Rijn,” came the professional response at the other end of the line. “How may I direct your call?”

“Mr. Turbee’s office, please,” said Khasha. She waited a moment as the call was connected.

“Mr. Turbee’s office,” came the second, efficient but friendly reply from James Turbee’s receptionist. “How can I help you?”

Khasha gave a brief description of who she was and what had happened, and how it appeared to have caused Turbee’s present situation.

“Ah, yes, you’re the young lady that called a few days ago. Please hold for a moment. Mr. Turbee is here, but in a meeting. I’ll interrupt. This is something he would want to know about.”

The phone was switched over to pleasant hold music. Vivaldi, thought Khasha with approval. Very classy. She waited for less than a minute.

“James Turbee here,” came a man’s voice. Powerful, she thought. Again Khasha explained the situation, including the purported firing by Dan, and Turbee’s apparent present condition, in a hospital that by and large housed the criminally insane.

“How is he at this moment?” asked the elder Turbee.

“I don’t know, sir. The guard tells me that he’s in the corner of his cell, drawn up in a fetal position. They won’t let me see him.”

“Khasha, did you say that he’s at Saint Elizabeth’s? That institution is for the treatment of psychiatric issues of people who are in trouble with the law. What on earth did he do that was criminal?”

“They said something about him attacking police officers,” she replied.

A few seconds ticked by in silence. “Hamilton? Attack a police officer? No way. Look, please stay there, miss. I’m about half an hour away.”

Khasha advised the receptionist that John Doe #17’s father was coming, and that she was going to wait for him.

“I really don’t care if the Pope is coming. It’s after hours. Period,” the receptionist said perfunctorily.

T
WENTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, James Turbee stepped through the door. His appearance differed profoundly from that of his son. He wore a Savile Row suit, perfectly cut, with a silk shirt and tie to match, was tanned and polished, and had elegant graying hair; in short, he turned heads wherever he went. The man exuded power and class. He was the managing partner of Henessey van Rijn LLP, a legal conglomerate that had offices in many of the world’s capitals. The firm had more than 500 partners, 1,000 associates, and a total payroll for almost 3,000 individuals. James was one of the men in charge of keeping them all in line. He was 65, and had made his career as a litigator, but drifted into firm management in his mid-50s. He had a penchant for it. By the time he was 60, he ruled the legal behemoth with a will of iron. He traveled continually, visiting the many branches of the firm, cutting deals, acquiring more law firms, and fighting competitors for clients. Few saw him the way he was at this moment — a concerned and protective father.

After briefly introducing himself to Khasha and getting the details of the situation, he approached the front counter. “My name is James Turbee. I hear you have my son in here. I want to see him.” He caught the receptionist directly in his steely gaze.

“I’m sorry, sir, but it’s past visiting hours. You can come back tomorrow, if you wish,” replied the receptionist. She turned back to her computer screen, which displayed the latest Microsoft product designed to reduce efficiency to zero, Spider Solitaire. As she busied herself moving the cards around the screen, the elder Turbee pulled out his cell phone and called his office. After being given a telephone number, he made a second call. He stepped briefly outside to make this one. Within a few minutes, he stepped back inside and approached a confused Khasha.

“Watch this,” he said quietly. “It could be entertaining.”

No sooner had James finished making this remark than the telephone beside the receptionist began to ring. She took her hand off the cursor, frustrated that her strategy for the next card play had been interrupted.

“Saint Elizabeth’s Hospital, how may I help you?” she asked. There was a sudden change in her body language. Her posture straitened and the tone of her voice became infinitely respectful. “Yes sir. Yes sir. Immediately sir. Yes. Yes.” She put down the telephone, white faced, and said to James, “Come with me, sir.”

Khasha followed them into the wards. A guard joined them as they walked through the doors. “How did you do that?” she asked.

“The chain that owns this place is a client of the firm. I know the President of the chain reasonably well. So well that I have his personal cell number at my office. That’s who just called. Knowing him, that last conversation was probably spiced with profanity and vigor. She may be out of a job as we speak.” James straightened his tie proudly, and stood a bit taller. Khasha just smiled at his posturing.

The receptionist led them through a series of hallways and a large common room. Khasha had never been exposed to severe mental illness or psychoses. To see men mumbling to themselves in corners, demonstrating severely obsessive-compulsive behaviors, talking to nonexistent people, playing imaginary golf, and painting imaginary paintings was chilling. She moved a little closer to the older man and the guard as they passed through the room, down two floors, and through more doors and hallways. Finally they arrived at Turbee’s cell. He was still curled up in a little ball on the floor, his knees clutched tightly to his chest.

Khasha looked at the young man lying on the floor. An IQ that was off the Richter scale, but he’d never ridden a bike. No driver’s license. No friends. No girlfriend. “Poor little guy,” she murmured.

James was likewise moved by his son. He approached the boy, who appeared oblivious to his presence, and shook him. “Hambee, Hambee, it’s me. It’s Dad. How are you doing?” He lifted his son up to a sitting position. “Say something, Hambee. How are you?”

Turbee winced and moaned with pain, turning his face into his father’s chest, but said nothing.

“Hambee,” James repeated, reaching down and hugging his son.

“Hamilton, how are you doing? Talk to me. I need to know what you need.”

After some more gentle shakes, Turbee finally managed to look at his father through glazed and bloodshot eyes. He moaned but said nothing.

“Hamilton. It’s me. It’s your dad. Speak to me, son. Please.”

After a few more attempts, Turbee finally spoke. “I’m bad, Dad. Bad. I’ve messed up TTIC, the Armed Forces, the President, and just about everyone else. I deserved what I got.”

“Don’t think so, kiddo. Here, I have some meds for you.” James reached into his pocket and took out a handful of pills. He had carried extra medication for Turbee ever since the boy had been diagnosed. He never knew when it would be necessary, and James liked to be prepared when it came to his only son. He looked up and motioned to the receptionist. “Water. Now please.” It was not a request, but an order from a man used to giving many orders, and expecting to be obeyed. She went scurrying down the hallway, looking for a washroom.

“You’re hurt, aren’t you, son?” he asked gently. “Tell me where. What have they done to you?”

Turbee was glassy eyed and disoriented. But his father’s voice was a form of medication in itself, and his brain was finally starting to kick in. “Ribs, I think. Bunch of them are broken. My face hurts. Arms, here,” he said, pointing to enormous black, red, and blue marks on his forearms and sides. There was still caked blood in his hair, and he had an enormous black eye from one of Ziggy’s punches. “Burns,” he added, point to the marks from the taser.

The receptionist came running back with a dirty cup filled with water. Turbee gulped down the pills. His father turned to the receptionist.

“You threw him in this cell in this condition?” he almost snarled.

“I’m just the receptionist, sir,” she replied, quavering.

“We’re leaving now. The three of us. Turbee, can you walk? Here, lean on me. It’s a long trip to the parking lot — let me help you.”

James Turbee led his injured son out of the maze that was Saint Elizabeth’s Hospital. The guard started to protest, saying that Turbee had assaulted a police officer, and was due in court. James gave the guard his card, and a cold hard stare. The guard backed off. It was decidedly unusual, but the President of the hospital had called, and whoever this character was, he was obviously not someone to be trifled with. And all things considered, the guard told himself, the kid really didn’t look all that dangerous or menacing. James signed some forms at the front desk, and then he and Khasha gently put Turbee, wrapped in a blanket, in the back of his dad’s SUV.

During the ride, Turbee pulled himself together just long enough to insist that they stop by his apartment to pick up some of his computers. When the hardware was safely ensconced behind the seat, he lapsed once again into his semi-comatose condition, sleeping for the rest of the drive south to the family home.